“Comeback”

The air tasted of salt and the setting sun. Airi felt the last vestiges of stress drain away, replaced by the deep, resonant calm of the ocean. It had been the perfect escape. She and Saki were sitting on a low wooden wall overlooking the boardwalk of a small, tranquil seaside town, far from the polished chaos of Tokyo.

Saki was laughing, recounting a disastrous dating app story involving a man who listed his main hobby as "competitive bird-watching." Airi watched the waves, contentedly sipping a cold bottle of cider, her sunglasses resting on her head. Her skin was warm from the day’s sun, and the easy banter with Saki was the strongest medicine she could have taken.

"Honestly, Airi, you should have seen his profile picture," Saki giggled, adjusting her wide-brimmed straw hat. "It was him in full camouflage, hiding behind a bush, holding a pair of binoculars the size of my head. My criteria are now officially: 'Must not wear camouflage indoors or outdoors.'"

Airi smiled, a genuine, relaxed smile that reached her eyes. "Your criteria are always impeccable. I’m just happy to be somewhere where the biggest scandal is whether the fisherman's market has bluefin or yellowfin today."

Saki leaned back, her expression softening. "See? This is the Airi I missed. No calculating budget variance, no frantic texts about syncopated rhythms. Just calm, sane, well-adjusted Airi." She paused, then gave Airi a meaningful look. "And not a single news update about a certain idol on your phone all weekend. I’m proud of you for cutting that cord."

"The cord is not just cut, Saki," Airi affirmed, her voice firm. "It's been burned, buried, and paved over with the stable employment of a literary publishing house."

A sudden sound interrupted them—the clear, crisp ring of an acoustic guitar. It was a sound Airi couldn't help but notice, even after months of professional distance. It wasn't the aggressive, defiant pop she wrote, nor was it the gentle rhythm of the ocean. It was something else: intensely emotional and technically flawless.

A small crowd had begun to gather further down the boardwalk, near a collection of colorful fishing boats tied up at the pier.

"Oh, a street performer," Saki observed, craning her neck. "Probably trying to cover the latest chart-topper. I'm going to grab us another round of cider. Want anything?"

"No, I'm good," Airi said, her eyes already drawn to the figure. "Just... be quick."

Saki headed off toward a nearby stand, leaving Airi alone.

Airi’s attention was fixed on the performer. He was tall and slender, dressed in simple, anonymous clothing: dark trousers and a plain black hoodie, but his presence commanded the space. A wide, dark scarf was wrapped meticulously around the lower half of his face, covering his chin. A low-brimmed cap was pulled down, effectively hiding his eyes in shadow.

Only two distinctive things were visible: the pale, almost silvery-white shock of hair escaping from beneath the cap, and the fluid, powerful motion of his hands over the guitar strings.

He was playing a melody Airi had never heard before. It was complex and melancholy, a cascade of rapid-fire chords and intricate fingerpicking. It wasn't designed to make people dance; it was designed to make them listen. The sound was both pleading and furious, laced with a raw, familiar urgency that made Airi’s stomach clench.

She stood up and walked closer to the edge of the crowd, drawn in despite herself. The performer was using the acoustic guitar to tell a complete story: a slow, agonizing climb that built tension, followed by a sudden, hopeful release, only to fall back into a deep, unresolved chord. It was a musical depiction of emotional chaos—the very core of the "Defiance" album.

Airi felt a sudden, cold dread wash over her. No one else wrote music with that kind of emotional arithmetic. No one else could make an apology sound so complex and beautiful. As the piece progressed, the performer closed his eyes, his head tilted back slightly, exposing the powerful, slender line of his neck.

Airi knew the shape of that neck; she knew the intense focus of those shoulders. Even covered, the intensity of his commitment to the performance—the vulnerability of it—was unmistakably familiar.

She gripped the railing of the boardwalk, her knuckles white. Don't be ridiculous, she told herself. White hair is a common fashion choice in Tokyo. And there are thousands of brilliant guitarists.

But the music was too precise, too personal. It sounded like an inner dialogue that had been shared only in the silent hours of Studio B3. It was a confession set to music, using the very techniques she had taught him.

The piece reached its climax—a soaring, heartbreaking sequence of notes—before fading into a gentle, final strum. The crowd surrounding him let out a collective sigh, followed by a burst of appreciative applause. People began dropping coins and notes into his open guitar case and moving away, eager to continue their evening strolls.

Airi remained rooted to the spot, unable to move, unable to look away. She didn't clap; her hands were shaking too badly. The performer lowered his guitar, clipping the strap, and reached up with his left hand. The simple, deliberate motion of what he did next confirmed everything Airi's gut had been screaming at her for the last ten minutes.

He slowly and carefully pulled down the dark scarf covering his face. Then, he reached up and pushed the brim of the cap back. The last of the crowd dispersed, leaving Airi as the sole spectator.

Standing on the dusty planks of the boardwalk, bathed in the deep orange and violet glow of the evening sunset, was Ren Ichijō. His eyes were shadowed, but intense, searching the retreating crowd. His face was paler than she remembered, his jawline slightly sharper, as if he hadn't been sleeping well. He was wearing no stage makeup, no tailored jacket, and no mask of composure—just the raw, beautiful reality of his features. The white hair, slightly damp with sweat from the intensity of the performance, looked even more stark against his skin.

He had been playing for her.

He must have known she was there. He must have tracked her down, knowing the only way to reach her was through the one medium she couldn't ignore—the music—and without the interference of Junpei, the agency, or the press. This was his apology, his final, desperate plea, delivered anonymously and publicly.

Their eyes locked across the cleared space of the boardwalk. Ren’s expression was one of profound relief and pleading vulnerability. Airi’s mouth opened slowly, the cider cup slipping from her grasp and clattering onto the wooden floor.

She felt the full force of shock—not because she was surprised by his identity, but by the sheer audacity of his appearance. How dare he? How dare he follow her here? How dare he insert his chaos into the one small, peaceful corner of her life she had painstakingly carved out? He had broken her stability, cost her everything, and now he was showing up like a tragic romantic hero, expecting a simple, musical forgiveness.

A chilling, pure rage washed over her. It wasn't the passionate fury she'd used to write songs; it was a cold, hard anger at his self-serving narrative. Airi did not move. She did not speak. She simply stared at him, her entire posture radiating contempt. Her face, usually so expressive, settled into a mask of complete, utter loathing. The silence between them was louder than any of his music.

Ren took a tentative step toward her, his hand still resting on the acoustic guitar, ready to explain, ready to beg.